Returns of the Day
by Nightwitch87
Summary: Birthdays - lots of them. Olivia's life has changed substantially over the years. This provides a glimpse at moments in time throughout the seasons. Also featuring Elliot, Nick, Fin, Munch, Cassidy, Alex, Cragen...you know, characters, basically and her relationships with them. Hints of E/O and A/O, some Bensidy.
1. 1999

**Author's Note:** **Once upon a time, a couple of months ago in Ghana, my friend cheertennis12 gave me yet another prompt for a new story that went along the lines of: "I have the perfect 50** **th** **fanfic for you…Olivia's birthdays, all 16 seasons of them – if you're up for it". We chatted about it a little, shelved it away and I promised her I would write it once I had finished my other stories, at some unspecified point in the future. So consider this the first installment of me making good on my word. Oh and also, a birthday-themed birthday surprise for a lovely person who I am so grateful I got to know a little this year. :) I'll probably update irregularly on a "whenever I have an idea" basis, but it's safe to assume Chapter 2 will be coming before another year is up. Happy birthday, my friend!**

* * *

"I know what day it is" he announced in the annoying sing-song voice five-year-olds used when they knew a secret, paradoxically destroying the whole concept of the secret by spilling it to everyone. As he leaned over her desk from behind, a cloud of hypermasculine aftershave hit her. He had laid it on a little thick this morning.

"Congratulations. You want a medal for that?"

"Nope. Just part of the job."

"Do I need to ask?" She turned her head to glance up at him, but it was too awkward a position for her neck to hold. The superior grin on her partner's face didn't bode well, but since he had just asked her the previous week how she expected to get into an apartment building without a warrant (answer: ring the doorbell, ask a friendly neighbor to let you in), there was still hope that he was pretty clueless and talking about something completely different. A slight hope.

"It's someone's birthday."

"Yeah, well, _someone_ doesn't want to make a big deal out of it, so don't mention it to anyone, okay?"

"Got it." Elliot leaned in closely. "Happy birthday." The low murmur near her ear sent warm ripples down her spine, and she fought against the urge to shiver, but then he retreated and it was all good.

"Thanks."

"Birthday?" As if he had a radar of some sort, Cassidy popped up out of nowhere right beside them. He had an irritating habit of following people around so he could be right there to "observe" whenever anything "interesting" happened, then provide a running commentary of it. "Hey, why didn't you say? Happy-"

"Shh, not so loud." It seemed to be beyond his imagination that the reason why someone might not have mentioned their birthday was precisely this, because they didn't want another someone to make a big deal out of it.

"-birthday."

"Whose birthday is it?" Munch inquired, returning from his trek to the coffee machine. She was starting to feel like she lived in a rehearsed comedy, because the timing was just a little too perfect. All that was missing was someone jumping out of a cake, or perhaps one of those laughing tapes running in the background.

"Olivia's" Elliot offered helpfully. "She doesn't want anyone to know."

She glared at him, but he held her gaze with a slight smirk around the edges of his mouth, crossing his arms. "And that's working out so well."

Munch shook his head, taking a bite of his sandwich and chewing it slowly. "Birthdays…I don't get them. Everybody has one, what's the big deal?" For once, she agreed with him and his crumb-ridden philosophy. He was making a lot of sense for a guy who kept going on and on about how their computers were about to crash and the world was about to end. She didn't get the fuss about being the centre of attention. The whole thing struck her as pretty childish and self-involved. Being born wasn't an achievement of any sort, and to have to relive it year after year into her thirties seemed like a ridiculous notion.

"Exactly. Look, guys, don't expect me to bring in cookies or anything, it's fine, let's just…move on."

"Which birthday is it, anyway?" Cassidy asked, clearly not listening to a word she had been saying.

"Smooth." Munch patted him on the back. "Nice move."

"What?" His younger partner looked like a cat who had dragged in a dead bird with no clue what he had done wrong.

"You can't ask a woman her age" Elliot butted in a little smugly.

Munch pointed his sandwich at him. "Except when it's a round birthday, then they expect you to know and get all pissed off if you happen to forget."

Sometimes, she wished her ears could be folded inward to drown out the chit chat. There was way too much testosterone in this office, and damn it, where was Monique when you needed her?

"No, not even then. And never get them one of those cards that make a joke about their age unless you want them to sulk forever. Trust me, I'm married and…even _I_ know that."

"Oh yeah? You married to lots of women?" Cassidy commented snidely.

"Okay." She decided to interrupt them before the bickering could begin in earnest. "Thanks for the women's psychology lesson."

Elliot walked around and half sat on her desk, only narrowly missing a pile of papers. "Any plans for tonight?"

"Yes" she said with what she hoped was a mysterious smile. Not that it was any of his business, but it didn't hurt for him, for _them_ to know that she did, in fact, have a life.

"Ooh, a date?"

"You could say that."

Cragen swooped down on them like a quiet bird of prey. "What is this, a coffeeshop? Let's get to work."

"Got it, Captain." She could have sworn she saw the slightest hint of a smile in the look he gave her.

* * *

"…so this little girl winds up dead, and no one, not one family member or friend or…anyone noticed anything. They all claim everything seemed fine, like it's normal for a six-year-old to be barely talking. Who does that to a child? I'll never understand it." She hadn't meant to talk about this, but once she had made a start to explain how her work day had been, the word "bad" had been insufficient to describe it. Once the floodgates had opened, it had all come spilling out in a speech probably not intended for the masses. But she had to tell someone, sometimes. It wasn't that she was in the habit of talking about work with people outside work –not that there were that many people outside work she could have spoken to- but sometimes…well. Sometimes, she needed it to be heard. Every once in a while, she needed someone to simply say "wow, I'm sorry, that's messed up" to reassure her that she hadn't lost touch with normality yet. Call it validation or whatever.

Of course, her mother's eyes had glazed over somewhere around 38 seconds into the story as she sipped her wine. That could fall under "self-protection", if one were being kind. (It could also fall under "not really caring", if one were being harsh.) "Didn't you have something else to wear today, dear?" she asked with that irritating look of disappointed concern that should really be reserved for situations where one's daughter is shooting up heroin or preparing for a bank robbery.

"What? Did you hear what I just told you?"

"Yes, yes, it's very sad…" She waved dismissively, nearly knocking her glass off the table in the process. "But let's talk about _you_. That jacket really isn't very feminine."

Olivia tucked at her shirt. She didn't want to be thinking about this, fretting over clothes, but now that it had been brought up, she couldn't not think about it and it all seemed ridiculously trivial. How was this in any relation to what they had just been talking about? "I wasn't trying to be feminine. I was trying to dress sensibly for work."

"I understand that you're trying to protect yourself-"

"Not the way you think-"

"-but you need to think about the impression you're making."

"The impression of a professional, I hope." She could have explained that when she dressed the way she did, it made her feel more in control, that she got fewer stupid sexist comments from 25-year-old officers who she was supposed to outrank or ogling looks from 50-year-old superiors. She could interview suspects without them getting too distracted and, most importantly, she didn't have to spend hours in front of the mirror every time she got called in spontaneously. She could have said all that yet again, but what was the point? It wasn't as if her mother would listen.

"You're never going to meet anyone if you look unapproachable." For someone who had never gotten a happy ending of her own, she sure seemed to have an unshakable belief in attracting _the right_ kind of man, whoever that was supposed to be.

"I work in sexual offences. Who do you think I meet there?" She felt a stab of guilt at the way her mother's jaw tensed at the mention.

"And I wish you'd reconsider that."

She sighed, cutting her meat. "We've had this conversation. I have a career. I'm good."

"You could have had a career anywhere else, literally anywhere. You were top of your class; is this what you went to college for? Or is it some kind of punishment for me-"

"It's not about you."

"Dealing with…that all the time, it can't be healthy."

"Mother, please. Stop." She was a disappointment, she was doing some sort of juvenile rebellion, she was deliberately putting herself into a dangerous position, she had heard it all before. It would be nice if she could have been spared the pop psychology on her birthday.

"I'm just worried about you."

"Worried about what? That I'll turn out likehim?"

Her mother's lips pressed together, forming a thin line, as they did at every mention of her "father". "I didn't say that."

"You don't need to." A thing could only be stated so many times in anger before it became an accepted fact.

Olivia had had enough of these spontaneous, guilt-ridden waves of concern that happened every once in a while whenever her mother was sober(ish). They tended to manifest themselves in bouts of criticism of her life choices. It wasn't just her job or her decision not to educate herself even further, it was the topics of conversation she chose, the way she dressed, the fact that she was _alone_ and would probably die alone, and who would be there for her in this world once her mother wasn't? No one. (Of course, if she was foolish enough to mention friends or whichever guy she was seeing, they were the wrong choice of people altogether, with not an ounce of good in them, and anyway, you could never, ever rely on other people for anything.)

Once upon a time, she used to crave these little moments of maternal attention like bits of what a normal mother-daughter relationship should look like – at least judging from the things some of her college friends used to complain about, with the nagging and whatnot. As pathetic as it was, she liked it when her mother cared enough to get all overbearing. But then when they did happen –rarely, inconsistently- it felt fake, like an act that was being put together. There was something ironic about her mother's worry now, at the age of 32, when she had been preparing meals for them since she was nine years old. Then again, maybe it wasn't such a coincidence that these moments were happening more often now, when she had a life of her own, when she could walk away. Or maybe she was being unfair and her mother was trying to make amends. Maybe she was changing, working through things, getting better. Ha.

Right now, she was pushing food around her plate listlessly without eating, rearranging the broccoli to separate it from the sauce, then moving it back. It drove Olivia crazy. She knew better than to push it. But she couldn't let it slide. "Something wrong with your food?"

"What? No. No, it's…" She sighed dramatically. "…nothing."

"You should probably eat something then." Although she was on her second glass of wine, not counting the ones she had to have had at home before, she seemed shaky, which was always a suspicious sign for a woman who was accomplished at remaining just functional enough as long as she retained a steady level of alcohol in her system and didn't binge or crash. She was visibly trying here, and Olivia knew that it was probably for her sake, and that somehow made it worse.

"I am." Her mother smiled and cut a small piece of potato, slipping with her knife before getting through.

Olivia averted her gaze, watching the couple who entered the restaurant instead, a flurry of snow dusting the carpet where they had opened the door for a second before it melted. They looked stressed and weary, not at all like restaurant goers on a weekday night. Compared to these people and the argument they had without a doubt just had outside, she thought they were doing pretty well at their performance. They were making an attempt at least. Later, her mother would want to cover the bill, but would have "forgotten" her credit card, so Olivia would pay and she would promise to make up for it, and they would pretend that she wasn't struggling financially, because talking about it was impossible with her mother. It was all about keeping up appearances, and God forbid she should ask for help. but hey, her mother had remembered her birthday and underneath it all, she meant well. And that was something.


	2. 2000

**Author's Note:** **So this happened faster than expected because the image of this scene was pretty vivid. Yay, insomnia? Don't get used to it. Thank you for your sweet reviews! They always make me smile. And never be shy to give constructive critical feedback, either.**

* * *

A casserole dish. He showed up at her door holding a fucking casserole dish of all things. On a different day, the sight of Elliot Stabler being so homely might have made her laugh or provoked merciless teasing. But she wasn't in the mood, and that bottle of Scotch someone had given her as a gift years ago –did Scotch ever expire?- wasn't helping matters – there was no one she could ask now _. You had one expertise, mother_. So she stuck to one word. "Kathy?"

"She just wanted to do something nice, I guess." He shuffled his feet awkwardly, clearly itching to get out of the hallway.

"And she's cool with you bringing it over at this hour?"

"What would you do with a casserole at work?"

 _Throw it at someone, presumably._ "Thank you" she muttered as sincerely as possible, taking the dish from him to put it into the fridge for whenever she would feel hungry again (never).

He followed her inside without further prompting, glancing around as if to inspect her place and taking note of the open bottle of Scotch before settling on the sofa.

"You want a drink or anything?" This awkward home visit would be much easier if they weren't on such unequal footing here, she decided. On second thought, maybe there was nothing to worry about, judging from the way he was already putting his arm up on the back of the sofa, happy to stay although she hadn't technically asked him in.

"No, thanks. I'm driving."

"Back to _Queens_?" She didn't know why she said it the way she did, with so much derision. Way to be an asshole when he was trying to look out for her.

"Yeah. That's where I live, you know."

People had had the decency not to bring up her birthday today. This didn't mean they had forgotten, as she could tell from the stilted greetings this morning, the way they had hesitated before bringing a matter to her desk and had turned on their heels more than once. She didn't know who had told them over the past few days –she certainly hadn't- but somehow, the news of her mother's passing had trickled through to every corner of the precinct. The most noticeable thing, between muttered condolences and Munch offering an open "if you need anything…", was the silence around her now. It was that unique sensation of living under a bell jar like a leper amongst ordinary people – or at least someone who was pitied very much, but who might also be contagious or dangerous. People didn't want to say anything wrong, so they said nothing at all, and their sympathetic glances and forced friendliness, their avoidance was worse than anything. There wasn't a little book of manners that told you what to say when someone's mother had died at the age of 56 from a very ordinary accident that happened because she was a drunk. It wasn't quite "normal death", but it really wasn't all that tragic, either. It would be much easier if she just got over it quickly and everyone could pretend that nothing had ever happened. No one liked a downer.

"Shouldn't you be reading to the twins right now or something?" she asked, sitting down beside him with a gap between them.

"They're all about independence now. Dad's reading is uncool, I guess."

"You were always uncool. They were just too young to know better." She picked up her glass and downed the rest of her Scotch. It was a good thing she had even bothered with the glass, since she wasn't sure how appropriate it was for her partner to see her drinking from a bottle. That would have been too much like her mother. You had to draw the line somewhere. Her mother would disapprove of this whole thing, of course. Would have.

"You sure you don't want to take a couple of days off? I'd cover for you, no problem."

"No. Trust me, I _need_ to work right now." She would go crazy sitting around her apartment all day, alone with her thoughts. Alone, period.

"That's what I figured."

Well, how nice of him to be so empathetic. He didn't have a clue. He would return to Kathy and his one hundred kids, and probably two full sets of grandparents and aunts and uncles on top of it all. Perfect Kathy, who did all the housework without complaining, then made a casserole on top for a woman she hardly knew or liked. Because that was what good wives, good Christians, did. (It probably wasn't a smart idea to bite the hand that fed her.)

Sometimes, their worlds were so far apart it seemed to be a miracle they got on the way they did. Maybe it was the darkness of the job that united them, that silent understanding of how awful things were. The only difference was that he got to go home from that darkness to people who loved him, to play house and decide that this was his real life. For her, there was only the one life. He would never understand what it was to be alone, completely alone. And today, she couldn't pretend that didn't matter. She couldn't pretend to be like those people who looked sad and shook their heads sympathetically, assuring you that they were also really sad when their grandfather died at the age of 85, but that life went on. It wasn't the same thing.

Elliot was still watching her intently with those pale eyes of his, giving her that look he sometimes gave her when he wasn't sure if she could "handle it" and really wanted to take over himself. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine." She sure as hell wasn't going to break down in tears in front of her partner, proving him right.

"Are you…really?"

"Would you be?" She held his gaze, biting down on the inside of her cheek.

"No." He was the one to look away first, glancing down at his wedding band, which he was turning on his finger. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." She crossed her arms and scooted lower down on the sofa, drawing her knees to her chest. "You know…I know I'm supposed to be sitting here, crying, but the awful truth is…when I found out, that first moment before it really set in, I'm not talking about later at the morgue but that very first moment…I was…relieved." It sounded even worse out loud than it had in her head.

But he didn't go all judgemental as usual. He didn't react much at all, and she got the sense that he was holding out on her, which almost felt like a cheap cop-out. "Relieved how?"

"Because I knew something like this would happen one day. Not that I wanted it to happen, but I just knew it. And now, at least it was over. Like it had happened and now it couldn't happen again. The waiting was done."

"Makes sense, I guess."

"I mean I wanted to help her, I tried, but she couldn't…she wouldn't…I tried." Trying and doing were not the same thing. She wasn't responsible for her mother's life, she kept telling herself. She was _not_ responsible. Her mother had been an adult, perfectly capable of making her own decisions, she could have sought help. She could have gone to rehab. She could have gone to see a therapist rather than deciding that it was all a load of psycho bullshit, an instrument of power designed to "control the deviant". But if she had talked to her about it once more, if she had called her that day, if they hadn't argued on the phone last week when she had told her she was stuck at work and couldn't make it…

"I'm sure you did."

"And then she goes and dies on me, just like that. Selfish as usual."

He frowned, tucking at his sleeve. "Well, it wasn't like she died on purpose."

"It wasn't like she did much to prevent it, either."

"Maybe she did the best she could."

"Then her best wasn't very good. What about your mom?"

"Very much alive. But it's a long story." He shook his head in a way that seemed to indicate "not for today". Fine by her. His was alive, hers was not. 1:0 to him.

"It's not right" she said quietly.

"No. It's not. But no one said life was gonna be fair."

She scoffed. "Yeah, thanks, that helps." She had expected more from him than platitudes. If his next line was going to be "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger", she would smack him.

"I mean look at what happened to Linda's kids-"

"Put it in perspective, think about all the dead babies that have it worse than you? Seriously?"

"No, but she's obviously found a way to live with it."

"Okay, you know what, we are not doing this today. If you're gonna sit there and tell me how it's all for the best, she's in a better place now with baby angels floating around her and you're praying for her soul, then please, go home." _Fuck off._

"Noted." He paused. "Although…" _God damn it, El!_ "…forget heaven, but do you really think we just…disappear completely? Don't you think there is some part of us that…goes on?"

"I want to" she replied quickly, because she could feel herself getting choked up. "But no." She couldn't believe in something just because it was comforting. She would never have a birthday dinner with her mother again. She would never yell at her again. She wouldn't be hugged like that ever again – not that she had been a huggy person, but even so…No, she wasn't allowed to think about that. She couldn't think about that. One step at a time. She wasn't allowed to be sad yet, not while she was sorting out her mother's affairs, her credit card debt and mess of an apartment. This whole thing still felt like a nightmare she had had many times, one she might still wake up from. Except that she wouldn't. And that made her angry more than anything.

A moment of silence passed between them before he asked: "So how far along are you with the funeral arrangements?"

"Not as far as I should be" she told him, grateful for the subject change. "Considering it's in two days."

"Did she…leave any instructions?"

"No, not my mother. But I'm pretty clear on, um, her wishes. Fanciful poetry and all that." She shook her head, pouring herself another drink. "I know what she liked. The thing that gets me is the music. I mean, how do you decide between 'Praise the Lord, he never changes' and "The wind beneath my wings' when both make you wanna throw up?"

He winced. "Please go with neither."

"Or that song they played on the Titanic, that's an option, too."

"That one's sad."

"Well, it _is_ a funeral, so sad is appropriate." It felt surreal to be making light of this. But then again, it still felt surreal that she was burying her mother, making all these decisions she wasn't prepared for.

"Good point."

"You know what I dread about it? People. Her friends who she mostly hasn't seen in years coming and crying, saying how… _sorry_ they are, having to shake their hands." In her limited experience, the people who knew the deceased the least tended to cry the most at funerals. It was beyond unsettling.

"You want me to come?"

She was surprised by the suggestion. "You didn't know my mother."

"No, but moral support and all that. I promise I won't cry."

"No." The last thing she needed was her mother's friends gossiping about this stranger and speculating whether she was sleeping with him. Besides, the idea of him seeing her in that situation was still a little too close for comfort. "Thank you, though."

"Anytime."

Maybe she wasn't completely alone. But it was an illusion, one that was limited to the dark world of crime and punishment. She could never forget that.


	3. 2001

**Author's Note:** **I am sorry it has taken me a while to update, but real life is getting serious at the moment and entails a whole different kind of writing that leaves me demotivated for fanfiction. I will still go through with this though. Thank you for all the wonderful feedback. I really love reading your thoughts more than I can say. This chapter features some retro references and I will give you bonus points if you can list them all. (Yes, this may be a cheap ploy to get you to review.)**

* * *

"Hi, Mom."

She bent down to sweep some old leaves off the gravestone with her gloved hand, then crouched in front of it when they wouldn't come off. The afternoon fog had turned into a drizzle that settled in her hair and coat, making the impending dusk even gloomier than usual. It was a good thing she had gotten out of work early, since it would be dark in another half hour or so. Everything seemed to be shrouded in shades of grey. As a couple of crows settled on the fence to her left, she couldn't have thought of a more stereotypical setting for a cemetery. Maybe this excused the fact that she didn't come here often. Maybe it didn't. The woman at the flowershop had condescendingly pointed out that if she wanted a nice bowl of flowers, she should have pre-ordered it. Conscientious people did, she supposed. This way, all they'd had had left were some ugly pale green winter plants and spray-painted heather. Not much else survived the snow, anyway.

And despite the fact that there wasn't another human being in sight and the birds were the only company she had, the rest of the conversation took place inside her head. She wouldn't be one of _those people,_ people who had conversations with the dead when it was clear that they couldn't hear them. She wouldn't be caught talking to herself.

' _I'm sorry it's been a while. I've been busy- actually, no, that's a poor excuse. I have been busy, but I could have stopped by after work. I just didn't want to. Don't take it personally. … I can't believe it's been a year. And that's a lie again. So much has happened this year, you wouldn't believe it. No one knows what's going to happen next. I sometimes wonder what you would have to say about it all. You always had a lot of opinions on all of this. So… In a way, it feels like it's been much longer than a year and the world changes more and more from the place you knew. It's been a rough year. And I can't tell you about it. I still forget that sometimes, like I'll think about telling you something and then I'll remember that I will never get to tell you. Never talk to you. Never hear your voice. This isn't some kind of temporary thing, it's forever … So I guess that's what makes it seem like it hasn't been a year. And then I'm scared of forgetting you, but forgetting also makes it easier. The other day, though, I remembered some stupid thing you said once, and it didn't hit me as hard. I could actually smile about it and think how crazy it was, and I guess that's progress, right? Wow, I'm really not making much sense here. … We never used to talk like this, anyway. You hated whining. … I suppose what I'm trying to say is: I miss you. And I'm still pissed as hell at you for leaving. I love you.'_

* * *

She was buzzing. It was Saturday night in Manhattan, she was wearing her little black dress and those heels she had walked around in at home to break them in, and she was still closer to 30 than to 40 which, by her calculations, officially made her "young". She had put actual effort into styling her hair, she had put on waterproof make-up and had to admit that she looked attractive. She _felt_ sexy. She was confident and excited, and she was pretty sure that wasn't just the wine she had had at home. Tonight was the night to forget everything, to get swept up in the moment, lost in the music and dance. This was her birthday, her day to commemorate the non-achievement of being pushed into the world. By…no, she wasn't going to think about that. _Here's to you, Mom._ She would talk to strangers, listen to music, be carefree and happy.

So she did. She danced. And then she drank. And then she danced some more, although it really wasn't a dancing kind of bar. Judging from the people and the conversation she overheard over the loud music, it was the kind of bar where people went to "network", consume martinis and eat overpriced snacks covered in Himalayan rock salt while nodding their heads along to the music arythmically. The men conveniently remained around the edges of the room, observing the (often surgically enhanced) women in the middle who were sipping club sodas and throwing each other judgemental looks. No, thank you.

She was bored to death, and she certainly couldn't deal with that stock investment guy talking _at_ her about his fascinating life. (The upside of this was that she wasn't forced to talk about how she tracked sex offenders for a living, which was usually a real conversation stopper.) How was it possible for people her own age to be this _boring_? Granted, her life outside work mainly consisted of forcing herself to go to the gym and watching TV at home by herself, but that was no excuse. Listening to this guy turned her into an asshole, because she had decided that that was what these rich Manhattan bankers were: Massive assholes who liked to complain about how the real estate market was going down, the crash would only get worse but hey, at least it opened up some opportunities because you could buy houses at a cheaper price from families who couldn't afford them anymore. Maybe you could kick a starving puppy on your way out, too. If she had to listen to one more gel-haired guy in his mid-30s go on and on about how hard it was to find a decent carpenter and get proper insulation into his second home in the Hamptons (the struggle!), she would…well, walk away. So she did.

It was when she got up from that stool that she started to notice that the world was getting fuzzy around the edges, spinning and distorting, and it was all she could do to walk in a straight line in those heels that had seemed like a good idea at the time. The music penetrated her ears in waves, and she had to go easy on the drinks, because she would still have to find her way home later. She liked the confidence of being buzzed, but she did not like the feeling of losing control. She did not want to feel subjected to subway gropers and 4am drunks stumbling into the road, or taxi drivers feeling entitled to get more than their fare. She was still okay. She was fine. She knew what was going on here. She was in charge of her own party.

"Hey, sweetheart, need a ride home?" His breath smelled of mints that made her want to puke.

She pushed the offending hand away from her waist. "No, I'm good."

"Come on-"

"You really shouldn't drive."

She took off for her standard bar, which was much, much shabbier and dimmer, but that was what she needed tonight. She didn't mind the men in their 50s hogging the old-fashioned jukebox, discussing whether the CIA had conspired with Al Qaida to fly those planes into the towers. She didn't mind the bartender gruffly telling people to get lost if they acted out. She didn't even mind the kids who looked to be of dubious bar age throwing back beers and feeling like they were kings of the world. If she didn't look too hard. But, naturally, she had to buy another drink, "without an olive, because olives suck".

"Don't worry, I don't do flashy drinks."

The old music and the familiarity of the place filled her up, made her feel whole and young. Tonight, she wasn't a detective. She liked the looks she got, the white teeth in the smiles, the way her tights shaped her legs and the way these looks caused her face to flush and sent her blood flowing in just the right areas. She was turned on by the way the music got louder, the space more enclosed. And she liked that she was alive

* * *

The world was heaviness. It was glaring light and a bed that felt not quite stable, a thirst that couldn't be quenched because that would have required getting up for a glass of water. She opened and closed her eyes several times, dozing off again in spite of how much she needed to pee. She wasn't ready to deal with all that yet. When she moved an inch, her stomach rebelled and kept her in place. She was too hot, too sweaty to sleep, and yet she was naked. She wasn't even in pain yet, which was a bad sign. In her half awake, half dreamy, half drunk state, she had the sensation of falling.

A seeming eternity later, the world spun into place and the pressure on her bladder would not be ignored. She would move. Any second now. When she did, she noticed a dead, warm weight at her side, which took the unmistakable shape of a muscle-toned, male back in her bed. He was naked, although she had no way of telling what was going on under the sheet that just about covered his butt. Actually, she did, judging from the feeling between her legs.

In an instant, she was wide awake and jumping out of bed, fleeing into the bathroom and lifting the toilet seat just in case she would throw up. She couldn't. She…the world was spinning too much not to sit down on it. Fuck, this was the last thing she needed. She went over the events in her mind, but she was drawing a blank _. No, no, no, please tell me you were safe! You can't be that much of an idiot!_ One glance inside the bin was enough to assuage her fears, which were calmed further when she recalled that she had gone back on the pill a couple of months ago "just in case". Now the only problem she had to deal with was how to get rid of a strange man in her bed, whose name she couldn't even recall. Ted? Tim? Todd?

She could sort of remember a cheeky grin, an unkempt mop of hair that looked a bit like someone was trying to copy Russell Crowe, and a shirt that was a little too formal for that bar. She could recall a hand on her thigh at the bar, dancing closely, a hard-on against her stomach. But after that? A mouth on her neck. Sore knees. There was a sort of brief enjoyment here, something quick and result-oriented, but it was too early for coherent thoughts.

Shit. There was a noise outside the door, and she didn't have a bathrobe in here. For lack of an outfit, she wrapped a (clean so far) towel around herself, took a steadying breath and stepped outside the door.

"Oh." He had been in the process of putting on his boxer shorts and turned around, an embarrassed smile on his lips. He was cute. "Hi, uh…"

" _Olivia._ "

"Olivia. Right. This is your place?"

"Yeah." Where did he think he was, the Ritz? Her bedroom was a mess, last night's dress and underwear gracing the floor. She held on to the top of that towel. She didn't like the way he was looking her up and down.

"I…um…I hope you remember, we met at the bar. You invited me. I wouldn't have…otherwise."

"Relax, we're two consenting adults." She knew that much, although she had been unsuccessful so far at reconstructing the sequence of events. Consenting, and equally drunk by the looks of it.

"Yeah. Good." He looked visibly relieved, his shoulders slumping a little as he ran one hand down his face. "Rough night though."

"You can say that again." She pulled an old t-shirt she had worn a couple of nights ago out of the closet, throwing it on without fully removing her towel.

"So are you on AIM?"

"No." Good God. How old was he? She had been aware that he was somewhat younger, but he had to be pushing 30. He couldn't be _much_ younger than that, anyway. She suddenly felt very, very old.

"Can I have your phone number then?"

She could have done the "how about you leave me yours and I'll call you" dance, but it felt too dishonest. He was a nice kid. He deserved more honesty than that. "Look. This was fun and all, but let's not pretend this was anything it wasn't."

"I'm not pretending, I'd just like to see you again. No pressure. When we're not as drunk, maybe."

"I'm pretty busy at the moment." She wasn't in the right place for dating. Her career was finally picking up, she was making contacts and working a lot of overtime. Her routine was down to which days she would hit the gym and which nights she would study up on forensics. She needed that space. When would she even have time for a boyfriend? Not that casual dating necessarily equaled "boyfriend", but if it didn't, then what was the point? It seemed like too much effort to go through for nothing. Her life wasn't missing anything; it was full enough as it was. She had no one to look after but herself, and she found that she liked it that way. She could do whatever she wanted without owing anyone an explanation. She didn't want someone watching her every move, wanting to lie in bed and make sappy, meaningful conversation when all she wanted was to lie on the couch watching _The Amazing Race_ and imagining all these places she could travel to. Dating led to boyfriends, which led to "Where are you going? What are you doing? What are you thinking?", and before you knew it, you were looking after a squalling baby while he was off doing who knew what. Wow, she was really overthinking this.

"Well, like I said, we could just chat online and see if we have anything in common…"

"This isn't _You've Got Mail_. It doesn't work that way."

"Fine. Your loss" he replied sulkily, fumbling for his socks underneath the bed. He had been persistent, she would give him that, but this wounded pride thing so wasn't her cup of tea.

"Too bad. You want coffee or something?" she added, feeling obliged to show a minimum of hospitality.

"No, thanks. I'm just gonna go."

"Okay."

He shook his head. "Happy birthday to you, I guess."


	4. 2002

**Author's Note:** **I know, I know, it's been a while and I'm sorry. Life and *insert lame excuses here*. So without further ado, enjoy the next, rather short chapter and satiate my thirst for human contact by clicking that little button at the bottom. Some pointers: What did you like about this chapter/the story so far? What didn't you like? What could I do better? What are/were your favourite and least favourite moments? What would you really like to see in the story? What is the square root of 143?**

* * *

Mondays after a weekend off were the absolute worst. In many ways, not being on call made her more nervous than the countless interrupted dates or awkward arrivals at work in gym clothes, because you had no clue what was coming. You could walk into the office and have time for a coffee, shooting the breeze with the perpetually early Munch and catching up on some paperwork, or it could be the case that a string of rapes had happened at some festival or body parts of a dead working girl had washed up in the river. Most Mondays were somewhere in between, but that didn't make rolling out of bed any easier after the sensible Sunday night decision to indulge in late night TV. Add to that all the end of year extra work that got dropped on her desk, the paperwork they needed to clear up and the stats that got dumped on her because "you're so good with Excel and you know statistics" (based on some college classes she had taken well over a decade ago without software), the presentations she was compiling for her Powerpoint-rejecting Captain because the department was too cheap to hire a secretary, and…well, here she was at 9:11pm.

She rubbed her eyes until colourful circles began to appear on the insides of her eyelids, making matters worse as she felt the sting of eyeliner. Her daydreams all evening had been filled with drug-overdosed babies and maternal tears. The Hauser case was getting to her more than it should, considering the kind of messed up things she had seen – dead kids, raped kids, mutilated kids. OD-ed babies, now that wasn't SVU business as usual. She opened her eyes, shaking the images. The bar chart in front of her was still showing up all blue and grey, disregarding the third column. She cursed under her breath, feeling her partner's eyes on her.

"Liv, we can finish this tomorrow."

"Don't tempt me, all I want is sleep. But how will you feel knowing that all this will still be here in the morning?"

He sighed, surveying the messy piles on his desk. "All right."

"You know anything about Excel shortcuts?"

"Absolutely. You're talking to the expert here." The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

"You're not exactly much help here, you know."

He turned up his palms, offering them up as if to say that he had given it everything he had. "Hey, it's a fair division of labour. You compile the stats, I computerise the notes. Count yourself lucky, I'm the one doing the intern work here."

"If there were any interns who could decipher your handwriting…" she muttered under her breath.

"I don't see the point of this, anyway. They get our official records, what do they need our work product for? Munch's got a point about big brother."

"Due process. Transparency. Something. You're talking to the wrong person here." She refocused her attention on the screen in front of her. The longer they spent complaining, the more time was going down the drain. Going home at one point tonight would be nice. But the bar chart wasn't cooperating even though the column looked fine and she had defined all the formulas correctly and double checked the settings, and that dead baby wouldn't leave her alone. Something was off here.

"You think the Pfeiffers are in on it?" she asked after an unknown eternity of deliberations.

"Don't think so" he mumbled without glancing up from the notes he was studying.

"Because they're from a 'good neighbourhood'?" She wasn't in the habit of using air quotes, but made certain it came out in the way she stressed the words.

"No, just because…I don't see it. They got a baby too, you know, they'd be endangering their kid." Sometimes, Elliot could be surprisingly naïve when it came to families. "Anyway, you heard Fin, this was manufactured by pros, some Mexican cartel. We're not solving this case tonight." Clearly, he wasn't keen on talking about it. An instinct told her that this was getting to him more than her, after he had excused himself earlier to call Kathy in the middle of the day.

"You all right?"

He shrugged. "Better when we catch those bastards." It was a loose hope, they both knew, one that was _just_ out of reach. No words were needed between them to acknowledge that. The culprits might not be within their jurisdiction and hell, this case was barely within their purview. Narcotics was about to take it from them with good right, and there was nothing they could do about that.

What the incomplete bar chart in front of her told her beyond a doubt was that their clearance rate for cases wasn't very good. It was comparatively decent by SVU standards, especially once they went to trial thanks to their ADA's relentless pursuit, but more often than not, things trickled away before then. No matter how often she told herself that this was the way of the world, that there wasn't much they could do about it, it still gnawed at her. "He said, she said" killed the majority of rape allegations, and the number of arguments she had led with Alex about it was beyond counting. Even so, there was a strange satisfaction to seeing the numbers visualised in front of her. No one went missing completely. They were still represented in those bars. They were heard. She smiled as the computer _finally_ completed her command. There was some sense of accomplishment to this.

Elliot's eyes were on her again, penetrating her cheek, her neck and ear. She looked right back at him, an unspoken challenge. "Yeah?"

"Nothing." He rubbed his chin, glancing down at his notes and closing the file. "I gotta go make a phone call."

"You better not leave me hanging, Stabler. We were gonna power through, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. Have fun fixing your Excel."

* * *

The smell hit her before she could even look up from the screen. It was tempting, delicious, scrumptious, really. It was the smell of a "sinful food" she wouldn't allow herself too often, the ultimate take-out splurge. The combination of oregano and melted cheese immediately made her mouth water, letting her realise that the uncomfortable knot in the pit of her stomach could only be one thing: hunger. She hadn't eaten dinner, completely forgetting about it over her statistics, and damn it, she could have killed the son of a bitch who was going to do it in front of her.

That son of a bitch would be Elliot, as she noticed when he strode towards her triumphantly, box in hand. "Please tell me that's not all for you."

He grinned with an incredible smugness, setting the carton down on her desk. "Happy birthday."

Correction: She could have hugged the son of a bitch. "I…wow, thanks." Truth be told, she had assumed he had forgotten about it, and anyway, it wasn't like he could be expected to remember the exact date of her birth when they had a million other things to do. "You didn't need to-"

"Just be quiet and open it."

"There better be pizza inside."

"Open it." He leaned against her desk, crossing his arms.

She lifted the lid, which had stuck to one side a little, pulling a string of cheese behind it, and was faced with an unmistakable smiling face on a background of vegetables and dodgy looking meat she wouldn't touch. Eyes of zucchini rounds had been placed above a nose of red pepper and an upturned mouth of cherry tomatoes. To top it off, one side of the crust was covered in a darker, more orange-looking cheese that she could only guess was supposed to represent hair. It wasn't a birthday cake, but it sure was original, and she didn't quite know how to react other than to laugh. "Uh, what is this?"

"Special birthday pizza" he informed her, stopping just short of "duh" because the answer was so obvious to him. "You don't get it on ordinary days except at this one place in Queens, but I got them to make an exception at Pizza Mia." He looked as if he had just completed a successful undercover mission at a smuggling ring.

She smiled when she noticed a momentary wavering uncertainty in his pride. "You have a surprising commitment to getting perfect pizza."

"The kids like it…well, not the girls, they're too cool for it, but the twins do."

"Uh-huh. The twins. Sure."

"What can I say, I'm very in touch with my feminine side."

She was still trying to figure out how to separate the artwork into slices without ruining it when Fin walked in, returning late from his inexplicably long trip to the M.E.'s office. He stopped in his tracks and approached her desk with more wariness than warranted by the delicious smell of food. "What's this?"

"Birthday pizza. Want some?"

He gave it a skeptical glance before walking away. "Hell no. That face looks like it's straight out of _It_."

"Come on, it's cute" she lied, because now that he had brought it up, she couldn't un-see it. The large zucchini eyes and the bright red smile bore an uncanny resemblance.

"You know what goes on pizza? Tomato sauce and cheese, that's it. None of this white sauce and salmon crap."

"Funny, I never took you for a pizza purist." Elliot smirked at her, trying to pull her onto his side as he helped himself to the first slice.

"Never took you for a man of taste, Stabler." Fin glanced back and forth between them as if they were strangers in some kind of freakshow. "You guys need some alone time with your pizza?"

"Nope" she mumbled against the cheese she was trying to contain. It had never tasted so good.


	5. 2003

**Author's Note:** **So this chapter is a little more ambiguous and contains less pizza than the fourth. If you have issues with it, feel free to yell at me here or on Twitter nightwitch87. Basically, the italicised, present tense bits are flashbacks. Oh, and: Here's Alex.**

* * *

"So the fact that it's your birthday means that drinks are on you, right?" Munch asked, squeezing into the small space at the counter between her and Elliot as if it had been waiting for him.

She spread her elbows out to the side, claiming her bubble back. "No, I'm pretty sure it means _you_ are supposed to buy _me_ a drink."

"Oh. Should have made that clear when you asked us out."

"Maybe you weren't invited" Fin butted in from her other side, "stingy son of a bitch."

"Hey, you know I'm the life of the party around here."

" _Whiskey?" she asks, noticing the brown liquid in the tumbler. "Really?"_

 _Alex chooses to ignore her raised eyebrows at the drink of choice with a confident nod at the bartender. "Scotch. It's a Scotch kind of day."_

" _What's wrong?"_

" _Don't ask."_

Their go-to refuge was full of lawyers tonight, easily recognized by their expensive suits matched with the cheap, flat shoes they changed into after a long day in court. Chatting and forced liveliness filled the room with the kind of life she craved today, the distraction all of them needed as they celebrated the closure of the Wilson-Crawford case. Between people shouting over the music and clinking glasses, the pressure to talk wasn't overly strong, and that was a good thing. After a day spent exchanging information, there wasn't much left to discuss. Transitioning out of work mode was hard and after dealing with the things they had heard in court, the motivation to bring up their personal lives around each other was slim. Even so, there was a sense of camaraderie, of having just completed an important task and deriving some satisfaction out of that. It was a win for the victim, a win for the DA, a win for them. There was also incompleteness to this group, more noticeable than usual at the completion of one of Alex's last cases. It was an unfinished story or a gap that was shared yet left unacknowledged. On some level, she was glad that Casey Novak hadn't come along for a drink, and she immediately resented the thought. They were moving on. The world was moving on.

As they approached the table drinks in hand, she chose the seat between Elliot and Melinda, who had stood at a distance by the bar, taking in the room skeptically. It had been right to invite her along, the natural thing to do. With her, they were not more complete, exactly, but less incomplete. Up until a few weeks ago, she would have thought the two were the same thing. It turned out they were not.

"You come here a lot?"

"Not exactly." Melinda gave her a wan smile. "Pathologists aren't the most sociable people. It's a cliché, but true."

"Too much time spent in cold rooms?"

"Something like that. You'd think people would want to warm up, but the last time I went for after work drinks, the conversation revolved around maggots. Trust me, nobody wants to hear that at a bar."

"I guess that's what happens when you put people with common interests into a room together."

"Please, just because I do autopsies doesn't mean I spend my weekends dissecting frogs. I have other interests."

Fin nodded at her other side. "Agreed. Keep your personal BS away from work, but at the same time, have a life outside work. It's what keeps you sane."

" _I just don't get why she backed him up. He confessed to hurting those women and...you saw her at the trial. Standing by her man." The words taste bitter in her mouth. They taste like five years of "she was asking for it" and "we were both drunk". Or maybe that's the Scotch. She is exhausted, she should probably head home, but she is too angry to rest. Or not. She knows she should be angry, because that would be a normal human response, but instead, she just feels a tired resignation, a sense of "oh, of course this would happen". Alex appears so calm, and getting a rise out of her almost becomes a game of sorts, because she wants her to rage, too, so they can commiserate and care enough to fix the world._

 _But instead, she launches into an explanation, her face smooth and wrinkle-free. "Liv, you know as well as I do that partners make the worst witnesses; that's why we have spousal privilege."_

" _I did know that. I just don't see it as an excuse. I don't understand it."_

" _It's not our job to understand it. I'm not a psychologist."_

" _Well…okay then." Her fingernails clink against the class. It's so black and white out of Alex's mouth, winning and losing, the law and responsibilities. It feels like an accusation or a prompt to let it go. But Alex isn't like that. Not really._

" _Look" she sighs, "we can't change it."_

" _It just makes me wonder though. People staying loyal after a betrayal like that."_

" _Sometimes, I guess it's easier to stick with what you've invested in, no matter what. Or it's fear of the unknown, or dependency…" She pauses, swirling the drink in her glass. "Nobody wants to die alone."_

"So the Captain was busy tonight?" Melinda asked.

Munch shrugged. "That's what he said. I think he's worried about keeping his authority."

"I think he's got better places to be than here." Elliot indicated the table behind them, which was occupied by a few pretty boisterous twenty-something, recent college grads dressed up in their best young business clothes pimped with ridiculous high heels and copious amounts of lipstick. One of the young women was wearing bunny ears for no apparent reason and laughing as her friend leaned over and broke into "Go shorty, it's your birthday…".

Fin scowled. "He better stop that if he wants to walk out of here tonight."

She exchanged a grin with Elliot. "I think she's out-celebrating you, Liv."

"Only because none of you brought candles."

As Melinda launched into a story about the latest defence coup to get her evidence thrown out, which seemed to involve deliberately polluting her lab, Olivia's mind wandered again. She watched lips moving, felt the sensation of wood against her forearms, but the world was behind a glass pane, just out of reach.

" _So what about that lab guy you were seeing, that…Matthew?"_

" _Ancient history." These kinds of questions are the reason why, as a general rule, she doesn't discuss her dating life with anyone. Alex caught her at a moment of weakness, however, when she stopped by her office a while ago on the way to a restaurant to drop off some paperwork in what was pretty obviously not work attire. She remembers the appreciative look it got her, and the way it made her feel like her face was on fire._

" _How come?"_

 _She takes a slow sip of her terribly tasting drink as she considers the answer. "It's never a good idea to mix work and personal life. You must know that."_

" _Maybe, but who do you meet who isn't from work? You work all the time."_

" _So do you."_

" _I'm not criticising, just making an observation. Statistically, the probability of you meeting someone at work is higher since you spend the bulk of your time there."_

 _It's far too good a point to object to, and that irritates her. Alex always has to turn everything into a discussion of rational arguments and counter-arguments, but she isn't a problem to be solved. She isn't hers to solve. For her of all people to be giving out romantic advice after everything that has happened is beyond awkward. They are cool, but they still aren't_ that _cool. "Statistically? Is that how it works?"_

" _I don't know how it works. All I know is: Don't date anyone involved in our cases-"_

" _I wouldn't-"_

" _I'm not saying you are, just covering my bases here. Oh, and no cops; they're too difficult and always have other priorities."_

" _Thanks a lot."_

" _You don't want to be talking about rape victims and child molesters when you get home, do you?" Alex is looking at her with a new level of intensity now, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of her leather jacket. "You want space away from that."_

" _Yeah. That's what I want."_

"Liv?" She was jolted back to the present by Elliot's hand on her arm. He removed it quickly. The warmth lingered for a moment.

"Yeah?" Everyone's eyes were on her for some reason, and shit, what had they been talking about? No more than a few seconds could have passed.

Munch broke the awkward pause. "Ground control to major Tom?"

"That is such a bad song" Melinda groaned.

"Never underestimate the 80s."

Olivia raised her glass abruptly. She couldn't go on pretending. "I'd like to propose a toast. Um. To absent friends." Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as she said it, a sense of panic overwhelming her, but she was _not_ tearing up, no way, and that was the main thing.

Her startled colleagues seemed to hesitate for a second before following suit, raising their own glasses without a word and drinking. And then drinking some more to fill the silence that surrounded them in the middle of a noisy room. They didn't toast things. Their play at normality had been disrupted. Elliot's eyes were still on her, and she deliberately avoided them. If she didn't, she would betray herself and he would know, and nothing good could come of that. It wasn't any of his business. They didn't talk about this.

Neither did anyone else, or so it seemed. Something about their lightness was gone, irreparably diminished by the loss they were powerless to change. The need to be here, in this together, filled her to the point of bursting, and it was this need that scared her. It would whisper to her in the middle of the night, on those quiet Sunday mornings, telling stories of dying alone. Sometimes, it would even have Alex's voice, but not her words. It was wrong to need other people so much. They were bound to disappoint you, living their own separate existences behind that glass wall. But sometimes, for moments like this, they were with you and you were in it together, and the illusion that you would _not_ die alone would be a band-aid to get through the night.

Munch, who seemed to have developed an avid interest in the wooden table, cleared his throat. "She did well on this case. It was a tough one. She'd be…happy with the verdict." He had cried at her funeral. She had never seen him cry before. She doubted she would again.

"Yeah" Elliot murmured, his voice thick with something. "She could be proud."

Their eyes finally met as she nodded, and she could feel a prickling at the back of her neck as she realised that they were tethered to each other in their lie, trapped in a web of pretending and hurting their friends. There was no alternative; this was all for Alex' safety, but that didn't make it any less of a brick. They had watched the life seeping out of her, had thrown flowers into her open grave, had observed a frail-looking woman with the same eyes standing on her own, her body racking with sobs. They had grieved together. And then, the miracle: Alex had gotten out of that car, alive and as safe as she would ever be. They had sat on a bench afterwards, numb and unable to move, unable to speak until Elliot had kicked that garbage can and walked away. And had come back, asking if she needed a ride. Somehow, they were united in that truth because they had both watched Alex's blood seeping into the asphalt, and they resented it.

Alex wasn't dead. Alex was utterly alone somewhere with a new name, a new life and everything that remained wiped out. Like grains of sand, a person's existence could be blown away. Every day, they were just waiting to be erased.

 _Her perfume lingers for a moment as she turns to leave. It's something she would never wear during the day when she is her court self. The tart, sporty scent has been caught in Olivia's scarf, so she can't escape breathing it in as she walks away. Her mouth still tastes of peppermint. Alex turns around once more, and the streetlamp above illuminates her long hair. She parts her lips, but hesitates for a moment. "See you tomorrow, Liv." The road ahead is long, and she can hear the sound of her heels over the sparse night traffic._

 _And then, she is gone._


	6. 2004

**Author's Note:** **I'm sorry it's taken me so long (again!) to update for such a relatively short chapter, but this story actually takes an insane amount of rewatching and reading for "research purposes" to get into the mood of a given season. I love every minute of it, of course, but blame** _ **cheertennis12**_ **for all of it and also the prompt for this chapter. Featuring in this episode: Elusive Elliot, 2004 texting and some Fin/Olivia moments. You know what else I love? Reviews! In case you hadn't heard. So…you know how to make me happy.**

* * *

[meeting communications 9 tmrw not 11.] She typed it lazily with one hand already on the cold steering wheel, eager not to let this scheduling business cut into her downtime any more than necessary - not after a week of trips to Virginia, nine hour interrogations and a pervert sniffing kids' baseball caps. It was just her luck that she would be getting this message as she walked out of the precinct, determined to head home for the rest of the night, sit on the couch and not move until the end of _Amazing Vacation Homes_.

It took him under a minute to reply: [ok…] In her mind, she replaced the "dot dot dot" with the "assholes" he couldn't put into a text message. She had briefly considered calling Elliot simply to complain about how much they were being jerked around by career-hungry suits anxious not to lose a case here, but had decided that it would probably make both of them feel worse rather than better. This convenient out-of-office hours message had hardly been a surprise. Besides, she wasn't quite ready to step outside the fantasy world of a dream house in Alsace, or to be the one calling him over this when he had a sick kid at home.

[pick you up to go there?]

[no thanks, staying somwhere head straight there]

[ok] She didn't ask him where the mystical "somewhere else" was. Since dropping the bombshell on her during Myra's case, he hadn't even mentioned the separation from Kathy. Clearly, this subject matter was out of bounds for now. It wasn't her business anyway. The idea of his marriage falling apart made her strangely queasy. She wasn't exactly best friends with Kathy, so it wasn't like she was somehow invested in his family life. In fact, she would rather not get dragged into this at all. Maybe it was paranoid, but she kept half expecting an awkward phone call from her partner's perfectly gracious, decent wife with more information than she had ever cared to hear and a plea to intervene. But nothing so far. That should be a relief, but there was something unnerving about _knowing_ that things weren't fine, but not being allowed to say it. Elliot was far from falling apart, but he was less predictable somehow. Less _know_ able. There was a certain guard up, a dynamic that shifted when you couldn't just ask "how are the kids?" and be greeted with a story of Thanksgivings and school plays, which were as elusive to her as a story from a book. And sometimes, it was an unspoken question.

She turned the key in the ignition, cranking up the heat with another flick of her wrist. All she got was stale air that she watched hitting the windshield to no effect as fresh crystals sparkled on the outside under the bluish light. Great. Inside, the glass had already begun to cloud over with her breath, forming an icy barrier between her and the dark parking lot. She flexed her fingers to keep them mobile as the condensation began to dissipate from the bottom up, leaving an increasing dark hole.

Her phone rang just as she was carefully testing the windshield wipers. Green letters lit up in the relative darkness of the car as her thumb pressed the green receiver symbol.

"El?"

"Hey. So…how important is it for me to be there tomorrow?"

Very. She turned off the windshield wipers to stop their screeching sound as they wiped across rough remnants of ice. "Why?"

"Well, everything with Dickie and-"

"Is he okay? He's not back in hospital?" A rush of concern flooded through her. Elliot didn't drop cases just like that. If he was considering not coming in for this, something was seriously off.

"No, no, he'll be fine, but Kathy's been alone with him and Kathleen's out who knows where, and I'd just…uh…I'd like to be there to help out." _Help out._ A last desperate attempt at fixing things, or at not failing in one area?

"Yeah. Of course. You should be there. Help with Dickie." Her words sounded like a staccato to her.

"But if you need me, then-"

"No, forget it, I'll get Munch to come with."

"Thanks." His audible relief stung a bit. "I won't be out all day, just the morning."

"No problem. Is that all?"

There was a pause. "Yeah."

"You need anything?"

"No. I'm good."

She bit her lip, dry under the old long-lasting lipstick from this morning. "Okay. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Thanks again."

She ended the call, her hand dropping from her ear and stuffing the phone back into her purse. The heating was finally kicking in, melting the car back into life. And just like that, she made a decision. She wasn't going home yet. She had one more stop to make.

* * *

"What're you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too, partner."

He let out some air through his teeth, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he opened the door a little wider. "Better lookin' surprise than Munch at least."

"And no gross stories about what happens when bullet wounds get infected."

"Yeah, _no_."

"You don't look so bad, either." She was relieved to see him like this. He looked a little drawn, maybe, his face slacker than usual, but other than that, he was just the usual Fin at home, a bit more casual perhaps in sweatpants and a red hoodie.

"Never said I was dying. Just needed a day."

"Yeah, I heard." She tried to smile, but her skin felt stretched over her face as if it had been immobilised by the cold walk from the car to the building. "I don't think taking down a meth ring was what the doctor ordered."

"It was just what I needed. Wanna come in?" He stepped back to let her pass into a crammed hallway littered with an absurd number of paired up shoes, tied together by the laces. This finally allowed her smile to break through. She hadn't known Fin to be a man of fashion. Just like she hadn't really known about his son. Just like she didn't know so many things about him.

He wasn't one to apologise for the mess, but instead led her straight through it into a much tidier living room, which clearly hadn't been aired for a while. A blanket had been thrown back on the sofa, a dent made into a small pillow, and she realised that he had actually been resting for a change. Good. She immediately felt the urge to do something for him, to clean up or cook him soup. If she were the sort of woman who made soup for people. She should have brought take-out at the very least. She owed him that much, but it hadn't even crossed her mind until she had been standing right outside his door.

"You want a beer?" he asked, shuffling over to the small kitchenette.

"Um…" She shouldn't as she was driving, but it seemed rude to refuse this small offering. She would just take a sip of it. "Sure, thanks."

He grabbed two bottles from the fridge and cranked them open on the edge of the counter with the palm of his hand.

"Should you be drinking? Aren't you on meds?"

He gave her a tired look, pressing his lips together. "You gonna go all Doctor Benson on me?"

"No." He had been out of hospital for almost a couple of weeks. He had been working. He had to know how to handle himself.

She sat down on the edge of the couch, pushing the blanket to the side as he handed the beer to her, clinking the bottles in a quiet "cheers" before bringing his to his lips. In front of them, the colourful TV screen flashed the options "continue", "save" and "quit". He swallowed, glanced sideways at her and set it down on the table before them, the condensation running down onto the glass beneath, leaving a neat circle. "Look, is this some guilt visit?"

"What? No!"

"'cause if it is-"

"Well, I wasn't the one who shot you, so…" The attempt at humour got stuck in her throat. She hadn't shot him. She hadn't exactly had his back, either. He had saved a child's life, and she had stood outside calling for back-up. He could have died. He had been lying on the floor, unconscious, and the blood, so much blood seeping through as she waited and waited for back-up…

"Oh, hell no." He said it gruffly, but raised his arm as if to put it around her before he withdrew it, wincing from some pain. "We don't do that."

She swallowed, trying hard to ignore the stinging sensation in her eyes, the way she could feel a burning at the back of her throat. If she dissolved into a blubbering, apologetic mess in front of him over this, he would never forgive her. "I'm-"

" _Don't_. Coulda been you in that bodega and me in that car. Or any of us. It all happened so fast."

"But-"

"The doc said first aid probably saved my life. So I owe you."

"I-"

"Liv! We're good, okay?"

She finally brought herself to look at him, recognising how much he needed things to be okay between them, how much he did not want to talk about this anymore. Dumping her guilt on him wasn't helping him. It was only alleviating her own conscience, and it wasn't even doing a particularly good job of that. She nodded. "Okay." Her voice still sounded more wispy than she would have liked.

"You checked in, and I'm alive. That's all."

She pulled herself together, running one hand through her hair. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not here for you, I just wanted some company on my birthday."

"Ooh, shit, I totally forgot-"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You've been busy saving lives."

"No, I bet they all forgot, didn't they? Elliot can barely keep his ten kids' birthdays straight."

She chuckled. There was a grain of truth to that. "It's been a busy week, more than one, for all of us."

"Not gonna let up anytime soon, either."

"No. But you saved the baby from that house. That's something, right?"

He nodded slowly, but there wasn't the slightest hint of satisfaction in his features as he did. "Yeah." His eyes had glazed over, staring ahead blankly at the TV screen where a battlefield was shown, frozen in pause mode. She knew that look.

"And it sounds like you couldn't have helped his mom. You couldn't have stopped this from happening to her."

"Wasn't my job to help Tricia or 'stop this'. Dennis was a real piece of work, so it was all about him."

"Right. You did your job. You weren't her social worker."

"I know. We did our jobs, didn't cry ourselves to sleep at night over it, it was just…what I did there, it never felt right. I'm not gonna say Tricia was some little angel. She was a mouthy cokehead, and I was Terry Brown, so that was that. I get it. Don't need some rookie lecturing me on Post-Shooting Trauma."

Where had that come from? "Is that what I'm doing?"

"Nah, forget it" he grumbled, still not looking at her.

"Fin, listen to me, Tricia had her life together at the end. She obviously turned things around for herself, no matter what happened earlier."

"I know. Anyway…" He rubbed his palms together slowly.

"Have you talked to your son?" she asked gently, wondering if she was making a huge mistake by bringing it up.

"No."

"Don't you think that-"

"No" he repeated, his face set in stone. "He's not interested. Can't blame him."

"He didn't seem indifferent. He came to the hospital."

"To check if I was still alive."

She was genuinely surprised at Fin's willingness to discuss this. She had a feeling that he had been sitting here, mulling this over a lot, alone with his thoughts. "That's a minimum point for caring. Maybe it'll take more than one attempt to have some sort of relationship again."

"I failed him and he's grown now. Better to leave him be."

"Just because he's an adult doesn't mean he-"

"I had my chance, Liv. I wasn't cut out to be a father. Not everyone is."

She didn't know what to say to that, struck by the frankness. This conviction to screw up felt awfully familiar. And yet…

"Don't look at me like that. The truth is, I barely know the kid."

"Maybe you could get to know each other." She tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. This was understandable and infuriating at the same time. She hadn't been able to get Ken-not-Kwasi out of her head, so dismissive about his dad in a way only a young man who had been disappointed could be. But Fin was a _good_ guy. But good guys screwed up. These two things could be simultaneously true. Still, how could he not want to know his son? She thought of Elliot and how afraid he seemed to be of being kept away from his children. How could Fin not want to be there? If she had a kid… _if_ she ever had a kid…a familiar longing filled her, a yearning that had been growing inside her over the past couple of years or so. _Family._ The missing pieces of the puzzle that would make everything okay, would hold the fragments together and make her less likely to just disappear. Bringer of meaning, keeper of hopes. But it was selfish to put all that on a child, who was bound to disappoint, who was bound to be overburdened with needy parenting. The act of bringing a human being into this world for those reasons was fundamentally selfish. So perhaps there was something less selfish about withdrawing from that, refusing to screw up a kid. Maybe it was an act of mercy. But not for Fin.

"Me walking in and out of his life? It's no good."

"An absent father is better than no father at all."

"Is it?" he asked, giving her an accusing "I expected more from you" sort of look. "SVU's proof of that, huh?"

"You're not a sex offender." She consciously shifted her position, leaning against the back of the sofa. "It looks like he has his life together, so I think you're overestimating your influence there if you think you'd screw it up. Call him, Fin. You have nothing to lose."

He straightened the moist label of his beer bottle with his thumb, grumbling something about how he would think about it. It was a clear sign that this conversation was officially over, and she hadn't even touched her beer.

"So what's the story here?" she gestured at the screen that had just switched from a grey, gloomy world to darkness. "Do you play by yourself?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes not."

"Can I try?"

He narrowed his eyes, studying her face suspiciously. " _You_ wanna play a video game?"

"Why is that so strange?" So maybe she wasn't exactly what you would call a "fan" of past times condoning violence and making grown men act like twelve-year-olds. Actually, she didn't understand the appeal at all. But she had to at least know what she was taking issue with, right? There was an odd sort of tingling curiosity inside her, a desire to understand the feeling of shooting fictional enemies without second thoughts on a visceral level without rational regret.

He made a noise suspiciously similar to laughter, a single "ha" accompanying his shake of the head. "You wouldn't like it."

"How do you know?"

"'cause you wouldn't."

"What's it about? Is there a story, or…?"

"You're a soldier killing Nazis in Stalingrad."

"Oh. Grim."

"Like I said."

She picked up a spare controller lying around, only to have it taken from her hands by Fin, who still had to connect it. "Let's do this."


	7. 2005

**Author's Note:** **Ho, ho, ho! Have some seasonal SVU and EO holiday cheer, as this is my last update before Christmas (or this year). Since Olivia's fictional birthday has just passed, I thought it was time for another update. This has been a crazy writing year for me, even though things are slowing down right now. So I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank you guys for your wonderful reviews and support, as well as any Twitter discussions we may or may not have had. 3 This sense of community makes me really happy. Happy holidays if you celebrate any!**

* * *

"Happy birthday." The corners of his mouth twitched as he looked her up and down, taking in her jazzpants and tight t-shirt, the lack of make-up.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging her half zipped up sweater a little more tightly around herself to conceal the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. "Uh, thanks, what are you doing here?"

"We didn't really celebrate, so I figured now's as good a time as any." He strode past her in confidence as she stepped back, carrying a pizza carton in front of him. "Pyjamas at 8:30? Really?"

"It's been a slow night; I wasn't counting on my partner dropping by uninvited." In truth, she had just debated changing into something even less day appropriate and calling her friend-but-undefined-more-than-friends-on-and-off-again Eric to see what he was up to.

"C'mon, it's not a real party without this." He handed her the carton, a familiar expression of pride on his face.

She couldn't help smiling as she opened the box and saw the same old vegetable face staring back at her, the cheese already stringy as it had cooled down on the way over. "Birthday pizza."

"Of course!"

"You didn't have to-"

He shrugged, dropping onto the couch before she could ask him to sit. "I was hungry, and I knew I wouldn't find anything edible here."

She left the carton on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to grab some napkins out of her silly assortment of different colours and patterns, which she hardly ever used. As she set them down in front of Elliot, she couldn't fail to register his eyes wandering to her neckline when she bent forward, then flitting away. She settled down beside him, making sure to leave a comfortable gap as she tucked one leg underneath her body.

They ate in near silence. Few syllables were needed between them to comment on the quality of the pizza and the events of the day, which they had spent paired up with Fin and bogged down by paperwork, respectively. This was familiar territory by now, him dropping by occasionally after a text, her stopping by his place at all hours just to hang out. It wasn't something they openly acknowledged, but it had probably started out as a result of his discomfort in coming home to an empty space, which had pushed him to ask her for "home improvement advice". Months later, and the place was still near empty, filled with Spartan, second hand furniture. Furniture they lazed around on, eating Chinese take-out and speculating over cold cases. It was innocent. Mostly innocent. All the same, she didn't want to get too used to it. This, him coming by unannounced with birthday pizza, this was a potential problem. One she didn't want to deal with right now.

He wiped his fingers on a napkin and leaned back, tucking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He smelled of the minty, subtle aftershave he put on after a shower, never too much. "So. Another year over."

"Yeah." She put down the crust of her last piece and closed the pizza carton, which was still two-thirds full. Another year closer to 40. She didn't need to be reminded of it.

"No changes?"

"Life always changes."

"Nice calendar quote."

"No changes." She didn't know where this bit of curiosity about her personal life was suddenly coming from.

"That's…" He thought better of it, closing his mouth.

They were the same, him and her. That was the thing. They knew how dark the world really got, they cared and it ate away at them…and still, they wanted more. They wanted good things, human connections. Her whole life, she had fought against the feeling of being an outsider, dropped on this planet to observe, to get caught up in bandaging all the wounds on the surface of the cracked earth and still feel like it wasn't enough as they bled through. When she had been a teenager, she had often pretended that her life was an experiment she was watching from the outside, her mother like a task sent to test her, her father a mysterious stranger somewhere, a war hero perhaps who would be with her if he only could. Later, the content of the fantasies had changed, but it was always the same – at its core, a sense of not belonging, of being separated from people who talked about their husband's income or childbirth at cocktail parties, who had big Thanksgiving dinners with cousins and kids running around. Didn't they know what the world was truly like? Didn't they care _? "You're too sensitive, Olivia. Lighten up."_ Elliot had probably done all of it, the Thanksgiving turkeys, the family dinners, but he _knew_. He got the other side of it, and they didn't need to talk about it. There was an understanding that they were in this together. And yet here he was, pushing, fishing for something. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what.

"How's Kathy?" she asked out of the blue, knowing her words would cut, knowing they changed the outcome.

He waited for a couple of seconds before answering. "She's still pushing me to sign the divorce papers."

"You know what I'm gonna say."

"Yep."

She kept her attention firmly on her folded hands, considering her next words very carefully. "And what do you want?"

"Not to be divorced." He seemed to be in a daze, as if he were reporting a bad dream he hadn't woken up from yet.

"Because…you wanna be with her? Or because you don't want to be a guy with a failed marriage?" She could sense his head turning at the question, feel his gaze on her cheek. The sensation travelled over to her ear, down her neck, all the way back to her spine like something she wanted to shake off.

"I can't lose my family" he whispered. "I just can't."

That wasn't an answer. She finally glanced up, her eyes meeting his resigned expression. "El, she wouldn't keep you away from the kids. And they're old enough to know their own minds. Maureen's an adult."

"The girls hate me."

"I'm sure that's not-"

"You haven't talked to them."

"I have, actually."

"That was months ago. It's different now; I'm the bad guy who wrecked it. They want nothing to do with me, and I gotta respect that or I'll make it worse. They think I caused this, like I wanted any of this to happen."

"They're angry, and probably afraid of losing you. They want their home back the way it was when they were kids, and they realise that's probably not happening. So they act out." Not much unlike Elliot, who seemed to drift in and out of denial.

"That's what Rebecca said."

"Rebecca?" She couldn't immediately place the name, before awareness dawned on her. "Hendrix? You talked to her about this?"

"She was helping me through some stuff…" he muttered vaguely.

"Really?" She made no effort to conceal her feelings. He had called her Rebecca, not Dr. Hendrix. Rebecca, the perfect psychiatrist who had felt that being _only_ a cop was somehow beneath her. Screw her. She could see through the warm voice she put on, the way her eyes fixated on you as she asked if you were all right, suggesting you shouldn't be and automatically giving her the upper hand. Because it felt _good_ to have the upper hand; it probably felt absolutely fantastic to hold broken souls in your hands and fix them. _("A bit like consoling victims and chasing after bad guys to validate your existence?"_ a spiteful voice in her head asked.) Rebecca was kind and selfless, and she made sure you knew that. None of it surprised her, but she had never in a million years expected Elliot to go for that sort of thing, what with his endless complaints about Huang and the general unwillingness to discuss why he felt a certain way. For him to run to _Rebecca_ for advice was pretty ironic. It was a betrayal of sorts, although it was also the perfect fit.

"You got a problem with that?" he predictably jumped on the fence.

"No, I just didn't know she did marriage counseling, too. I guess she's an expert in many fields."

"What is it with you and her? Some old rivalry you can't get over?"

"Hm, no, we were great friends. That's how I know her so well." She crossed her legs and leaned back.

Elliot gave her the same mystified look he got when talking about his daughters, the intricacies of female friendship entirely lost on him. Sometimes, she wished she could be that willfully ignorant and look past the dance women did around each other – the ones she had worked with at least, since she wasn't huge on female friends. It wasn't a dichotomy between friendship and rivalry but rather, the communication cloaked in friendliness that could never be openly addressed or challenged, because it hadn't, technically, happened. It was Rebecca smiling sympathetically and voicing how "good" it was of her to join the academy, "with everything that happened to your mother", a compassion that had always felt patronising. It was her graciously congratulating her when she had done better on an academy task, and acting surprised when the situation had been reversed. It was the way she liked to talk about how "mindful" meditation had made her, while dropping comments that of course, it wasn't for everyone. It was the "non-judgemental" position she had taken on all the cases ever, looking at all sides and advocating a strict "let's agree to disagree, I'm sure you have your reasons" policy, which was really nothing but an arrogant refusal to position herself and lose an argument, or consider the fact that she might be wrong. Oh yes, Rebecca had been a great friend, and was probably a great psychiatrist. She was also very aware of this fact, although she would make a big show of her own humility.

"You jealous?" He said it with every attempt at nonchalance, but there was a glint in his eyes, a smug satisfaction in his tone.

"Of her being the shrink to that thick head of yours?" she shot back, relieved. This kind of banter was more her territory than dishing out marriage advice. "No, thanks, I'll pass."

"Lucky me, 'cause that would be a train wreck waiting to happen."

"I barely wanna know your conscious thoughts, let alone your subconscious ones."

"Oh yeah? Pity." He gave her the smallest of winks, and it was such an untypical, un-Elliot gesture, so out of line with the conversation they had been having seconds or minutes before, that she knew it wasn't a thoughtless action.

She brushed some crumbs off the table and got up. "I need a drink. You want anything?"

"What are the choices?"

"Beer and beer. Or water."

"Tough one, but I'll go for the beer."

She could still feel his eyes on her as she walked to the kitchen, a slight sway in her hips. Opening the fridge led her to notice its desolate state once again as she grabbed the single bottle left and two wine glasses from the cupboard overhead.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't have beer glasses. And only one cold beer. We're sharing."

"I'm not drinking beer from a wine glass." He said it as if she had suggested he put on a dress in public.

"Well, you better not be contagious then." As she slumped down next to him, she noticed him glancing at her vibrating phone on the table, which she was conveniently ignoring.

"Who's Eric?"

"A friend."

" _A_ friend?" he asked, that vertical wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

"Yes, and it's none of your business."

"Hey, I'm happy for you either way."

"Jesus, El…" Talk about jumping to conclusions. Eric wasn't exactly the love of her life. He made her feel good after Nate had moved to take that job in D.C.. He happened to be single, as was she, and that was it.

"What?"

"Nothing." She snatched the beer from his hand and set it on the table between them rather forcefully. As she did, she felt a sharp tug at the base of her scalp, right where the finer bottom layer of hair she was trying to grow out fell over her neck. Again. She began to fumble with her necklace, trying to open the clasp where the strand had covered it, but it was futile. Her hair had wrapped around the chain, and she couldn't figure out the direction. This happened about three times a day, enough to make her consider getting a full-on short cut again.

"You want a hand? I'm pretty good with jewellery."

"Figures."

"Stop yanking at it, you're making it worse."

"It won't-"

"Just stop." He reached over and, when she lowered her hands, began to loosen the strand hair by hair with professional patience. His fingers brushed against the back of her neck as he did, causing goosebumps on her forearms and the urge to arch her back. She forced herself to stay still, watching him out of the corner of her eye, the look of concentration on his face – a look which, in fact, betrayed nothing but complete and utter focus on the task at hand. His lips had parted slightly, his tongue resting right behind his teeth. She could sense his chest rising and falling with his shallow breathing, her own falling in sync with his by nature. If only she had called Eric…

"All done" he murmured, moving the clasp to the back of her neck.

"Thanks."

The pad of his thumb was still resting against her skin without moving, just behind her pulse point. This could be an accident. It could be on purpose. It wasn't an accident. He was waiting. _Damn it._ There was a tugging in the pit of her stomach that shot lower down, a direct line from her sensitive nerve endings. She wanted to turn her head ever so slightly and kiss his palm. She wanted to scoot closer. She wanted to move his hands to her thighs. She wanted to straddle him and grind against him, watching him as she came. Anything but kiss him on the lips, because that felt too intimate.

She could do these things. He was waiting for a reaction, waiting for permission, for initiative, maybe. This was okay; this was just within the realm of the permissible. A little further, and it wasn't. All it took was one more step. But she wasn't his rebound. She would never be his rebound. Rebounds were people who helped you get over your pain, who were there for the time being and fun, and who you maybe even cared about until they left. They weren't _your person_ , your best friend and partner who you trusted with your life and couldn't lose. She knew she could never be that faceless for him, and if she could, she didn't want to find out the hard way. It wasn't like sex was this pure, sacred act to her or that it had never been on the table between them in some form, in those long night surveillances, those trips home after a drink at the bar with her head spinning and both of them sweaty and the night so warm. She knew the way he looked at her when she had rushed to a crime scene straight from a date (or, well, the part after a date, which was more awkward) and he _knew_. She knew the images that popped into her mind when she got herself off, but that was fantasy. This was reality, with a hell of a lot to lose, and she was pretty sure that he had never slept with anyone except Kathy, and they were still married, and she was pretty damn sure he didn't have a clue what he was doing at the moment, Mr. I-don't-want-to-be-divorced-so-I'll-pretend-I'm-not. Or that she did, even if she had to make a decision for both of them here. It couldn't mean nothing. Having him inside her could never be nothing.

She caught herself, forcing her breathing to deepen again, closing her mouth. He was looking right at her, with what exactly, she couldn't see, because that would have required locking eyes.

He dropped his hand.


End file.
